


i swear i asked for more coffee than this.

by cruxifiction (vampirecaligula)



Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Gen, Not Your Standard Coffeeshop AU, Pre-Canon, and it is NOT kruan actually this is kranna and yuartel but the focus is their friendship, the genre on this fic is weird. it's almost a character study, warning for sex mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 07:15:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6319777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirecaligula/pseuds/cruxifiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reports come in all the time about locations of various Cruxis operatives. Kratos’s is a name that Yuan hears often (‘Man With Awful Hair Found Rummaging Through Trash’ is the usual gist), though he doesn’t pay much attention to it anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i swear i asked for more coffee than this.

The air stinks of salt and fish as the sun glares off the limestone, cutting into Yuan’s eyes even despite his hood. He wrinkles his nose as he strides from the marketplace, the wind at his back pushing the putrid scents past him and weaving them into his clothing. He has never liked Palmacosta. He has not even mildly accepted Palmacosta. But it _is_ the largest city in Sylvarant, at the moment, and the only one within miles that carries legitimate medical equipment.

It’s not as bad as it could be, he reminds himself, shrugging a sack further over his shoulder. It _could_ be summer. It could be the _middle_ of summer, and humid, and during a famine. Bodies, packed together trying to buy what little they can while swaying to and fro with disease. Those years are the worst.

As it is, by the time autumn rolls in the farmers and fishermen have largely retreated, and the market streets are not quite so packed as they could be. There is still the occasional human around, sometimes mothers corralling their children or merchants trying to get in a last deal, but even in the mild clime of the Palmacosta sea, people are hunkering down for the winter.

As Yuan approaches the final vestiges of the market, a merchant’s nasal voice oozes into his ear. “My deepest apologies, sir,” the merchant says. “We’re sold out of that particular compound.”

Then another voice, this one quiet and startlingly familiar: “The ingredients to prepare it?”

“Also gone. What you’re asking for gets popular around this time of year—nine months after winter festivities.” A sharp, knowing laugh. “But I’m sure you’re already aware of _that_!”

It’s a single booth on the outskirts of the plaza, with a sign in large letters that promise snake oils and panaceas. Only the stupid and naïve bought from there, and most would rather die before chancing a man with so few real credentials—unless they were truly desperate.

The unkempt red hair and hunched figure are telltale. Kratos Aurion would definitely be among that number.

“I am aware,” Kratos replies. There is an imperceptible edge to his voice. Those who don’t know him well would have missed it entirely, and Yuan is surprised to find he still recognizes it. How many years has it been? A good few decades, surely—Yuan is not certain they can still call themselves acquainted. “If you have nothing useful for me, I’ll leave.”

“Well, now, I didn’t say _that_ ,” the salesman gushes, and begins to sing the praises of his many pastes and ointments. Kratos makes no move to leave—whether he’s taking the man seriously or merely trapped by his own acquiescent nature is difficult to say.

Yuan watches the exchange, just resisting the urge to sigh.

He fails.

“Alright,” he says loudly, and steps over to intervene, laying a hand heavily on Kratos’s shoulder. Kratos jumps and twists his head to glance at him, the faintest gasp crossing his face. “This is pathetic. Come along, Kratos. Let this bastard harass someone else.”

“Yuan?” he blurts in surprise.

Yuan guides Kratos away from the booth, hand slipping from his shoulder to just a few fingers in the middle of his back. If Yuan held a knife in his hand, it would be the easiest thing in the world to sever Kratos’s spine—he could do it now, even. There’s a blade in his belt and, when they turn into an alley, not a soul to be found. In killing Kratos, he would destroy Origin’s Seal. He would ruin Yggdrasill’s plans once and for all, prevent thousands of lives being lost. It wouldn’t take more than five minutes of his time.

Yuan doesn’t reach for the knife.

“No, I’ve changed my name since we last met. It’s Julia now,” he rattles off.

“You’ve never looked like a Julia to me,” Kratos muses. “Perhaps a Marian.”

“And you’re a strong Christine. What the hell are you doing here, you lumbering brute?”

The rhythm is easy to fall into. A quip from Kratos, and a retort just as fast. Almost like old times.

They stop at the mouth of an alley, a canal stretching to the right and a small, rickety bridge between one building and the next over their heads. They are shielded from the sun, but not from the heat. Even in this half-light, Kratos is barely recognizable as the man in Yuan’s memory.   He is still pinched, still mournful and melancholy, and his eyes dart every which way as if unsure of what to look at. But now there’s a curve to his lips that has been absent for so long, a streak of determination and something . . . softer, something gentler. Something Yuan hasn’t seen in four thousand years.

But when Yuan levels him a glare, Kratos’s guard goes up. His weight shifts back and his hand slips to his sword, more from habit than conscious effort. Clever man. Yuan could still run him through at any time.

“I’m looking for something,” Kratos says.

“For what, a scam? How absolutely terrible it will be if you don’t find that,” Yuan retorts. “Honestly, Kratos, this place is crawling with Desians more than it isn’t. What the hell is so important you’re risking getting caught?”

It has been nearly two years, now, since Kratos went rogue from Cruxis with one of the Angelus Project’s prisoners.   They’ve managed to stay under the radar until this point, and if pressured Yuan will admit he’s impressed. He is not, however, about to praise Kratos for his defection. Even if he is no longer actively serving Yggdrasill, by standing by he is still condoning Cruxis’s actions—and Yuan cannot forgive that.

Kratos knows where they stand, surely. He knows that Yuan’s goal is to kill him, that there really is no way around it. But despite his wariness, he does not seem afraid. “Pain medication,” he says after a pause, letting his stance relax. “As strong as possible.”

“Are you finally going to take the stick out of your ass?”

The hell does _Kratos_ , of all people, need medication for? To an angel, pain is entirely optional; Yuan can see Kratos choosing to suffer through it, the self-righteous martyr that he is, but if that were really the case, he wouldn’t be searching for medicine, would he?

“Not before you get rid of yours.”

“You think you’re _clever_ , don’t you!” Yuan sputters.

Kratos’s silence is all the answer he needs. Yuan could kill him for that.

“Regardless,” Yuan continues, “you won’t find what you’re looking for here. I daresay that even if there were any around, some smarter man would have gotten here first and bought the entirety.”

Kratos’s eyes flicker to the sack on Yuan’s shoulder and back.

“ _Not_ me,” Yuan insists, shifting the sack to the other shoulder.

“Of course not,” Kratos agrees, his tone dry. Then he reaches into a pocket sewn in the interior of his cloak and pulls out a small pouch, one that clinks and shifts in his hand. “How much do you want for it?”

The pouch is laden with gald of the highest value, bright and newly minted; where Kratos can have gotten it Yuan has no idea, but it’s enough to pay for the sack ten times over. Even if he gave up the entire thing, if it was in return for _this_ the Renegades could certainly make up for it.

The offer is tempting.

“Sorry,” Yuan snaps, absolutely not sorry at all—except, perhaps, for himself. “There is no way _you_ need this more than the same men and women whose lives you’ve helped destroy. It will be far more than whatever blood money you have on hand.”

Kratos looks away, and for an instant Yuan does feel something that resembles a twinge of guilt. The man is far too pathetic in recent millenia to do something so simple as growing a spine, and is that really his fault?

Yes, it is.

“I know,” Kratos says quietly. “Believe me, I would not ask you if I was the one who would benefit.”

“Then who exactly is this great, _selfless_ act for?”

“Anna.”

Yuan draws a blank. He knows several Annas, it’s not an uncommon name, but none of them is acquainted with Kratos—

—and then he remembers. He’d even been thinking about her earlier, though not by name. That incredible woman, who had in a matter of months convinced Kratos to do something Yuan couldn’t in four thousand years.

“Ah, yes,” Yuan says. “Your rescued princess, right?”

“She’s hardly a princess.”

“Where is she now? She must be slippery if she could evade both you _and_ Kvar. I may have to bring her in to train a few recruits.”

Kratos scowls and his chattiness dissipates.

Of course, Yuan realizes, he doesn’t trust him. As he should not. The man is smarter than he seems; Yuan has always known this and is careful not to underestimate him, but sometimes Kratos does make it difficult.

Yuan sighs through his nose. “You don’t have to tell me where _exactly_. I’m just curious. And of course, I could find out, if I really wanted to.”

Reports come in all the time about locations of various Cruxis operatives. Kratos’s is a name that Yuan hears often (‘Man With Awful Hair Found Rummaging Through Trash’ is the usual gist), though he doesn’t pay much attention to it anymore. Cruxis does not speak of the seraphim, so neither do the Renegades. He hasn’t been dismissed as a player on the stage, but until Yuan grows the balls to kill Kratos and finally end this bizarre world, he may as well not exist at all.

Yuan knows because of this that Kratos moves quickly, quietly, and often, and that he has a companion with him most of the time. Reports vary as to what this companion looks like; sometimes, she isn’t spotted at all. But Kratos would not leave her alone if he fears for her safety—she must be somewhere nearby, and it would not take a long sweep to find her.

Kratos has a master poker face, if nothing else, but his eyes betray him. Yuan is right—Yuan is _always_ right, most of the time—and he knows it.

“She is nearby,” is all Kratos tells him. “I promised I would be back by sundown.”

“An ambitious promise.”

“I’m not always late.”

“You’re late enough.” He yawns mostly for show, then examines his fingernails—also for show. They look fine, even if they’re not the most neatly manicured in Sylvarant. “So, you’re looking for strong pain medication for this woman. Surely you aren’t inept at protecting _one_ person, are you?”

“Anna,” Kratos says, pausing to put emphasis on the name—a great show of insolence, from him, “can take care of herself well enough, when I need to leave. She isn’t hurt.”

“Then she doesn’t need this.” Yuan has to admit, he’s a bit disappointed; that money would have done wonders for his people.

“Perhaps not now,” Kratos acknowledges, “but later, she will want it.”

“Planning on getting into danger, are you?”

Kratos’s brow furrows in worry; Yuan can’t help a sudden dash of concern—for this unknown woman, if not necessarily for Kratos.

“Please tell me you’re not going to do something incredibly _stupid_ ,” Yuan says, his confidence slipping away even as he says it. Of course Kratos has done something stupid. It’s Kratos. It’s in his blood.

“I may have already done so,” Kratos says.

Yuan scoffs and rolls his eyes. “I knew it. What did you do?” he asks. “Not because I want to help, mind. I could use something to laugh at.”

Kratos’s expression does not change; if anything, it grows more somber, despite the rising flush in his cheeks. He looks away when he answers. “—Anna is pregnant,” he says, “and she is due soon.”

Yuan says nothing, a plethora of thoughts all competing for attention within his head.

Anna is _pregnant_ , and presumably that means Kratos is the father, they’ve certainly been together long enough, and of course that means that Anna and Kratos must have fallen in love at some point (disgusting). And pregnancy can only occur when two people engage in intercourse (also disgusting), and from this Yuan can only infer that not only is Kratos going to be a father, but _he had to have sex_ to make that happen.

 _Disgusting_.

“Well,” Yuan says sharply, “ _that’s_ a surprise. You not only managed to break out a high-security prisoner and keep her for yourself, but you knocked her up as well. I’ll be damned—I suppose I should be impressed, shouldn’t I?”

“It’s not like that,” Kratos immediately replies.

Yuan waves a hand to stop him. “I’ll need a drink to hear _this_ story,” he says, and marches off into a sidestreet. “Don’t just stand there like an oaf, come on! And put the money away,” he calls back—not looking to see if Kratos follows him, but feeling the pull of his mana chasing all the same.   Almost to himself, he finishes, “Someone desperate might stab you for it.”

* * *

Yuan will not admit this to anyone, but he cannot fly while tipsy.

It’s a well-guarded secret of his. The alcohol throws off his vestibular system less than it would a normal man’s, but it still renders him dizzy and liable to fall, and when he’s going to be carrying sensitive cargo, he can’t afford to be even slightly off his game. The craving for something stronger than caffeine is rooted deeply within his system, especially when this kind of stress is on the table. But for now, he will have to settle.

Yuan drags Kratos to the dingiest café in Palmacosta, the one that sells coffee that tastes like shit but is more caffeine than anything else, and settles them into a corner where he can see everyone who enters. The owner has family members in the Renegades; Desians don’t often come here, so it’s a poor place to eavesdrop, but it’s good for two seraphim who wish as much as possible to remain anonymous. That’s good. Yuan can’t remain anonymous if he tries; it’s a flaw.

The corner they sit in has a table that hits Kratos’s knees when he sits and tilts toward Yuan’s lap, which will be a disaster if someone bumps into it. The wall behind them is exposed, a mess of crumbling brick and chipping whitewash, and they’re two of only three customers. Yuan orders the largest pot they have (“You may think I mean a large pot. You’re mistaken. I want you to take whatever cauldron you use to make pasta and fill it with coffee, and bring that to me.”) and when it arrives, pours a cup for himself and for Kratos. Yuan dumps in as much sugar to mask the taste as he can. Kratos merely picks up the cup between two fingers—it’s too small for his hand—and stares at it without taking a sip.

Yuan scorches his tongue on the first drink. That’s all well and good, it means he won’t taste the rest. “I swear I asked for more coffee than this,” he grumbles, referring to the pot on the table that is definitely not a cauldron.

Kratos says nothing.

“Alright,” Yuan says. “Let’s pretend we’re friends again, and you tell me every godforsaken thing you’ve done in the last couple of years.”

“Everything?” Kratos asks, raising an eyebrow.

Yuan gags. “You can spare me some details, you perverted bastard.”

Kratos finally takes a sip of the coffee, much more slowly than Yuan—the coward. “How much do you already know?”

He speaks more quietly than usual despite the lack of people in the café; this is not surprising, but it does mean Yuan strains to hear him.

“Well,” Yuan begins, “I had to hear about the whole situation from Kvar, so my version may be a little misconstrued.”

“That’s fair.”

Yuan takes another sip of the coffee—he was right, he cannot taste it—and counts off details he’s put together from reports and Cardinals’ complaints on his fingers. “You’re a crazed, volatile bastard who sabotaged Cruxis agenda specifically because of your unprofessional desire to keep the seraphim rank all for yourself. You broke out a prisoner and killed several half-elves in the process, pissed all over the higher-ups, and ran off with their property. You also probably fucked Kvar’s wife. If Yggdrasill tolerated courts, you would be sued for the skin off your back—not that it would be worth it, but you know Kvar.”

Kratos is silent for a time, then says, “I didn’t piss on anyone.”

“So you _did_ fuck his wife.”

A growl of irritation. “I didn’t do _that_ , either.”

“Pity,” Yuan says. “That’s my favorite part of the story. So, am I to presume you’re now traveling the world with the love of your life, living happily outside of the cesspool that is the religion and politics of this world?”

“That. . . wouldn’t be incorrect,” Kratos admits, hiding his nose in the cup of coffee. “This is good.”

“It’s shit.”

“I suppose.”

“How are you enjoying your vacation, then?” Yuan asks, keeping his tone light so that he won’t scream. It is hysterical to imagine Kratos waltzing around Sylvarant with a human girl, blissfully unaware of the number of people who were killed after his little episode, of the number of Renegades he had lost in trying to fix the situation. Who could count family among those killed in Kvar’s anger. It’s _hilarious_ that Kratos’s biggest concern is Anna in childbirth when the entire _world_ is at stake—but then, the world has been at stake for thousands of years. Yuan supposes that at some point, you ought to move on.

Kratos is sitting less than three feet away from him. One spell is all it will take.

 _Peace, Yuan_ , he hears Botta rumble in the back of his mind. Yuan lets his anger rest at the base of his spine, keeping it at a low simmer, and considers adding salt.

Kratos sets the small cup down on the table. Yuan picks it up and slides a saucer underneath it. “It’s. . . troublesome,” Kratos says.

“Well, I’m sorry,” Yuan replies. “Truly your life must be difficult, with your lawless freedom and your unprotected sex.”

“I don’t mean to infer that I am worse off than the population.” Kratos shifts uncomfortably, still staring at his hands. “I am aware that I am more fortunate than most, and for that I am grateful.”

“How virtuous of you,” Yuan murmurs.

Kratos’s eyes flicker to him briefly, his mouth taut. A flash of anger too quick to see; by the time Yuan registers it, it’s gone. “I won’t be able to find a proper doctor for Anna without risking discovery,” he says. “She is strong and insists she will not need the care. It is admirable of her, but . . . .”

“But you don’t believe a test subject will have an easy time with childbirth, nor are you confident of the baby’s health. You probably aren’t even sure of its humanity, all things considered,” Yuan finishes for him.

Kratos nods once. Yuan snorts with derision.

“More than that,” Kratos goes on, “this world. . . is not kind. We will have to raise the child in secret, constantly on the run. It doesn’t deserve that. No one does.”

Yuan struggles not to grit his teeth together when he speaks, one of his hands clenched beneath the table. “Perhaps you should have thought of that before you decided to chance bringing someone into _existence_ ,” he says. “Like it or not, Kratos, you are stuck with the thing now. You’ll have to deal with the misfortune like every other poor asshole in the world.”

“I understand,” Kratos says, “never doubt that.”

He is startled by how forlorn, how _miserable_ , Kratos sounds—in an entirely different way from how he did when they last spoke. The man must really love this Anna, Yuan realizes; more deeply and thoroughly than he’s loved anything up to this point. And somewhere, Yuan feels a pang of—of _jealousy_. A wife, a child. . . Kratos is living the life that Yuan might have had, sometime in the distant past. It is painful to recall Martel’s hands, her skin, the scent of her hair and the kindness in her eyes, to know that they were together for far too short a time, and that he can never hold her or speak to her again. It aches to know that Kratos has inexplicably found that in this Anna, and still more that he has a shot at keeping it.

 _You should not begrudge them this,_ Yuan tells himself fiercely; _you are above that._

He does not believe it.

“But,” Kratos continues—Yuan takes another drink of sugar-laden coffee and wishes fiercely that it were alcohol—“if there were a way to _change_ this world—”

“So that’s what it takes to get you to see reason,” Yuan snaps. “Not because you realize your mistakes, but because it is suddenly _inconvenient_.”

“I won’t defend myself to you.”

“No, you won’t,” he sighs, enunciating to ensure he is heard. “Which is what makes arguing with you so damned irritating. I have to put in all the work. Tell me then, so I can laugh and get it over with. What’s your brilliant plan?”

Kratos is too practical for his own good; he never speaks unless he has something to say, and he would not bring up changing the world unless he has an idea for it. He is not like Yuan, who feels that all plans are born out of talk, and that working in a void is impossible. In some ways, Yuan finds it an admirable quality. At the very least, it keeps him quiet.

But there is no way Kratos has an idea that Yuan has not tried ten times before. It’s been too many centuries for that. As he watches the man’s expression change, Yuan thinks once again: _I could do it._

A single spell. A knife, just below the ribs, thrust upward. Drawn across the throat in a single slash. In the eye, at angle that will slip through the skull and pierce the brain. It would be so easy.

He dumps the last mouthful of coffee in the cup down his throat.

“I’ll be here a few years, to get Anna and the baby settled,” Kratos says—of course, Yuan thinks; he cannot deprive himself of his own family, and neither should he. For their sake. “Then I’ll release Origin’s seal.”

Yuan chokes. The hot, bitter liquid sticks in his throat, dribbles over his chin; he drags a hand across his mouth and it stains his glove, but he does not notice. “You— _what?_ ” is all he manages to say.

Kratos silently watches him pull himself back together. He’s calm about this, composed—he’s given this a lot of thought, hasn’t he?

“You know what that will entail, right?” Yuan demands.

“I’ve lived with Origin for four thousand years, Yuan,” Kratos says gently. Yuan chafes under the words; the man doesn’t have to be so damn patronizing about it. “I know what it means.”

“No, Kratos, I don’t think you do,” he says, keeping his tone low with great effort, speaking quick and sharp and with escalating fury. “You’ll be gone. Dead. Your wife and child alone in a world that is hunting them _as we speak_. Mithos will not be kind to them when—not if, _when_ —they are found. He’ll be pactless. Powerless.   And he will be _furious_. The worlds will still be split in two, you idiot, you won’t have succeeded in anything but provoking an already restless beast!”

“I know,” Kratos replies. He holds Yuan’s gaze, his jaw set in stone.

“ _‘I know’,”_ Yuan mocks. “You know! What do you know? You’ve had your head in the sand for as long as I’ve known you! If you know anything it’s how to bend over and get screwed in the ass, and then ask if that’ll be all!”

Kratos does not defend himself. _Of course_ he doesn’t. He already said that he won’t.

“I won’t have changed much. You’re right.”

And gods above, Yuan loves to hear those words. Somewhere deep inside is the sick satisfaction that he’s not the only one who needs Kratos dead—but in this context, those words are the last thing he wants.

“But I’ll have paved the way for someone else to come and fix our— _my_ —mistakes,” Kratos goes on. “Someone else will have to wield the Eternal Sword, someone else will have to reunite the worlds and . . . eliminate Mithos, once and for all. I cannot be the one to do so. I don’t deserve it.”

“But you deserve to die,” Yuan hisses.

“It’s the least I can do.”

“ _No._ ” Yuan slams a hand down on the table; it rattles, and the pot of coffee shakes, Kratos’s cup and saucer slide toward him, but they do not fall.   “You _coward_.”

“I have never pretended to be otherwise.”

“You don’t,” Yuan stammers. He growls as he collects his thoughts, and then continues. “You don’t _get_ to walk away from this world we created. You don’t deserve to die? _Bullshit_. You don’t deserve to have three years of happiness and then leave _them_ to deal with the fallout of your actions! You don’t get an easy way out!”

“No one said it was going to be _easy_ ,” Kratos replies sharply.

“You want something difficult?” Yuan demands. “You try moving on after Anna is _dead_! You try picking up the fucking pieces of yourself and realizing that everything you stood for in her wake is _gone_ , and you try repenting from those actions you used to desecrate her name! You do that for three thousand years, Kratos, and then tell me that killing yourself won’t be _easy_.”

“The situations are not comparable—”

“But the outcome is the _same_ ,” Yuan insists. “Except it won’t be you picking up the pieces. It will be your _child_.”

At that, Kratos is silent.

Yuan’s fury does not abate, though he has ran out of breath—his hands tremble and his heart races, and he considers ceasing to breathe in an effort to keep calm. Eventually he sits back, and tugs a shaking hand through his bangs.

“I have wanted to ask, for some time now,” Kratos says quietly, “if you would wield the Eternal Sword.”

Yuan’s eyes flicker to Kratos. “Me?” he asks incredulously.

A nod. Barely there.

Yuan lays a few fingers across his chest. “You have the gall to ask _me_ to wield the Eternal Sword after _you_ kill yourself.”

“It would have the most immediate beneficial effect.”

He scoffs, and gives a strangled laugh. “You won’t even doom your own family to the task like a proper asshole.”

“I try to be considerate of others,” Kratos says; it’s half a joke, and half serious, and is ridiculous in the context of their conversation. Kratos. _Considerate._ Yuan snickers more, though without amusement.

“I read you the riot act and you still think I’d help you,” Yuan says. “You really are something else.”

“It’s for the greater good,” Kratos tells him. “You’re the only one I trust to reverse Mithos’s effects as much as possible—the only one with as invested an interest, and the only one that I doubt would take the power for his own ends. And in any case,” he finishes, “you have been trying to kill me for years.”

“You sound like you’re conducting a business deal.”

“I thought a logical argument would convince you.   Perhaps I was wrong.”

“Oh,” Yuan says, “were you ever _wrong_.”

He and Kratos sit there for a minute, Kratos waiting for Yuan to say something, and Yuan trying once again to capture his scattered thoughts. In the end, he cannot figure out what he is even _feeling_ , much less thinking, save that he is livid and disappointed in Kratos, and really, when is he ever not?

Yuan stands and pulls his sack back over his shoulder, then digs into his pocket and drops a few gald on the table to pay for the coffee.

“I take it that is a no,” Kratos murmurs.

“No to the sword,” Yuan clarifies, “and no to the medicine. Find it yourself. I’d tell you to get scarce and rot in a ditch, but you already intend to do that on your own, so gods speed you on your way.”

“Thank you for listening to me, at least.”

Yuan turns on his heel. Through the open door the sun has taken on a golden glow as it sets behind the buildings and the ocean’s horizon; he will still make it back in a timely manner, he thinks, but not so fast as he’d have liked. He should never have taken the opportunity to speak to Kratos. He’ll know better in the future.

“Good-bye, Kratos,” he says. “Don’t ask me for help again.”

In this foul a mood, his hands still trembling, it would have been so easy to bring a knife to Kratos’s throat. But that would have given Kratos exactly what he wanted.

Yuan cannot allow that, either.

**Author's Note:**

> if i hadn't written this on request, they would've gone to an actual bar. as it was, this was a request, so to coffee they went. as the person i wrote this for pointed out, yuan could technically just turn off his sense of taste and he wouldn't have to bother, but like myself, yuan loves to suffer.
> 
> i know that we've had some things translated recently that make this non-canon, but hell if i remember what they were. so as far as i'm aware, this is canon. 
> 
> thank you so much for reading!


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